


World Guardian Codex Entries

by SaxSpieler



Category: Runescape
Genre: Freeform, Gen, bunch of one-shots based off of OC codex entry prompts, drunken rantings, medical drama and trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 20:11:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7283086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaxSpieler/pseuds/SaxSpieler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bunch of little one-shots based around the Dragon Age OC Codex Prompts Challenge on Tumblr, done instead with my World Guardian, Finley Bannbreker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entry #12: Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the events of “The Weight of a Soul.” Finley, having slightly recovered from being stabbed through the stomach (again), having most of her ribs broken, and almost getting torn apart by a collapsing pocket of reality, goes for a drink and vents her frustrations a bit.

The World Guardian spends a fair amount of time here nowadays.

In Taverly, I mean. Not necessarily in my pub.

She did visit the Pick and Lute the other day, though.

Word had it that she had been gravely injured. Again. She was brought up from Ardougne about two and half weeks ago. Near death, according to the druids.

Nasty job she’s got, if she’s getting banged up that badly every other week.

Anyway, seems the first thing she did after recovering from whatever nearly shredded her apart this time was come in for a pint.

Or four.

I remember her hobbling through the door, leaning on a crutch for support. Her voice was gravelly and tired as she ordered her first pint of ale, and she nearly spilled it on the way to the empty table in the far corner.

One by one, the rest of the patrons joined her at the table, despite her obvious want to enjoy her ale in solitude. I waited for her to shoo them away, even getting ready to go over there myself and smack some heads if they gave her any trouble. But, she just sat there, gulping down mouthfuls of ale every handful of seconds, seemingly paying her table-mates no mind.

At that point, I headed into the kitchen for some clean glasses. When I returned, the World Guardian had finished her first pint and was nursing a second, presumably handed to her by another patron.

One of them called me over, ordering a round for everyone at the table. As I approached with the ales, I overheard a part of the current conversation.

“What’s got you so riled up, Fin?”

“Yeah, don’t you have a new story to tell?”

“Come on! You almost died again! There’s got to be a story behind that, right?”

I placed a new glass of ale in front of her, just as she thunked down her second empty.

“Aye,” she grumbled, grabbing the new pint and downing half of it in a single pull. “I’ve got a story fer ye…”

I assumed it would be a quiet affair: a simple storytelling over several pints.

I was wrong.

So very wrong.

By the time I had returned to the bar, the World Guardian had clamored onto the table and was swinging around a half empty glass, shouting her story at the top of her lungs.

“And…an’ then, he said, ‘Yer gonna help me git the stone out a 'at snake’s arsehole, or I’m gonna shove mah abs in yer face some more!’ I had no choice, ye see!”

Apparently, the thickness of the World Guardian’s native Fremennik accent strengthens in direct proportion to her alcohol consumption. The other patrons seemed to understand her well enough, however, shouting excitedly for her to continue.

“So, I did. I helped that devil wit the glory-havin’ abs. But, a body a th’ others turned coot on us all an’ tried ta make aff wit th’ stone! So, I smacked 'im cross th’ head wi’ a stick, an’ he ran away!”

“What a coward!”

“What happened next?”

I watched as the World Guardian downed her third pint, belched loudly, and motioned for a fourth to be handed up to her.

“I’ll tell ye whit happened! Tracked 'im down, I did. Found 'im in a pit 'at don exist naemore!”

The crowd was clearly enjoying her drunken tirade.

“Did you fight him?”

“Aye, I did!”

“Did you kill him?”

She took another comically long pull from her ale, spilling most of it on her tunic.

“NAE! Went off th’ dock, he did, an’ he gave me THIS!” With that, she yanked her tunic skyward to reveal that her entire torso was wrapped tightly in bloodstained bandages. A chorus of sharp gasps rose from the table, followed by relative silence as everyone took in the sight.

If that’s what those bandages looked like after two and a half weeks, I don’t dare think about what she must have looked like when the druids found her.

After a moment, someone raised a glass and broke the silence.

“Well, what do you have to say about that, Finley?”

“Yeah!”

“Tell us!”

“Ye want ta ken whit I think?”

“YEAH!”

“Aye, then! I’ll tell ye whit I think!” She then raised her glass high above her head and belted out the loudest, most unintelligible tirade I’d ever heard. I only managed to vaguely understand the last half of it, which sounded something like this:

“He’s a reit dobber, he is! ‘Is heed’s a loose left ball, ‘is eyes are like a demon’s arsehole, an’ he’s got a brain tha’s bin cooked sideways by sools an’ fa knows whit else! Th’ next time I see 'im, I’ll git 'im a scar on th’ otter side a his coopon to mat, an’ I’ll shove 'is left ball heed reit up 'is arse where it belongs!

Ye hear me, Nomad? Yer an auld, gantin, scunnersome, rat-cheil who’s nae worth th’ tissue ye wipe yer crease wi’! So gang back in yer tent an’ GIT FUCKED!”

The table went wild with cheers. Glasses were raised, and almost instantly emptied. It was a sight to behold.

I hadn’t seen a smile that wide on the World Guardian’s face in a while.

If only it had lasted longer than five seconds.

“Oi, Finley! Why don’t you go and help him with that?”

***

The next day, I posted a sign just above the bar.

_Please refrain from throwing empty pint glasses at other patron’s heads. Thank you._

_~Management_


	2. Entry #5: Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place over a couple months, spanning Finley and Adrius’ time in the desert with Ali the Wise and the events of Lost City, ending just before the Fairy Tale quests, when their romantic relationship begins. Adrius DeSilva, (ex-)Temple Archer, corresponds with his (adoptive) brother, Marinus ‘Marin’ DeSilva, who’s a bit peeved at getting roped into the family drama yet again. Marin is a hydromage studying at the Wizard’s Tower – he may not be the most powerful mage around, but he has a shrewd mind for strategies and a near-photographic memory that serves him well. He’s also a bit of a glutton for gossip and loves watching potential drama unfold, as long as he stays well enough out of it.

Dear Adrius,

I’m going to kick your sorry ass halfway across Asgarnia.

Strong letter to follow.

Your brother,

Marin

 

Dear Marin,

What?

-Adrius

 

Dear Adrius,

Don’t play dumb, Curry-head! Sir Elian and Cassius nearly busted down the door to the Wizard’s Tower the other day, demanding to know where I was hiding you. When I told them that I wasn’t hiding you, they all but called me a liar and turned my quarters upside down, as if I had you stashed under my bed or something. You’ve gone and tweaked Sir Elian’s nose again, and he’s bringing the holy thunder down on my head. Again.

Explain yourself.

I’m still working on that strong letter, by the way.

Your brother,

Marin

 

Dear Marin,

If you promise not to tell Father, I’ll tell you what I’ve been up to.

-Adrius

 

Dear Adrius,

Are you kidding? Tell me everything. Sir Elian won’t be able to get a peep out of me.

Strong letter is still not finished yet.

Your brother,

Marin

 

Dear Marin,

Okay. I ran away.

Couldn’t stand any of it any more - Father, Cassius, the other Temple Knights, everything – so I just ran away.

I hitched a boat ride over to Catherby and headed west, but I got lost along the way, and ran into this woman, who I think was also a bit lost. We’ve been traveling together ever since.

Guess where we are now, Marin?

The Kharidian Desert.

Crazy, right? We’ve been working with a scholar in Nardah, helping him research this race of creatures called the Mahjarrat – have you ever heard of them?

Anyway, we were just about to take a short vacation to Lumbridge. Who knows? Next time I write to you, I may be on the moon or someplace equally unbelievable.

-Adrius

 

Dear Adrius,

I can’t blame you for rabbiting.

Tell me about this woman you’re traveling with.

Your brother,

Marin

P.S. No, I haven’t heard of these 'Mahjarrat.’ They’re nowhere in any of the Tower’s books, that’s for sure.

P.P.S. The moon? Really? I dare you to write me from the moon, Curry-head.

 

Dear Marin,

Put simply, she’s built like a bear, smells like a yak, and runs about like a squirrel trying to find its nuts. You’d like her.

All joking aside, she’s ~~a lovely person~~ ~~a real hoot~~ ~~a~~

She’s strong.

Physically, yes. She could probably crack my skull between her thighs if she wanted to. But, she’s strong in a different way, too, you know?

Saradomin, help me explain this in a way that doesn’t make me sound like a fool.

Take Cassius, for example. He’s physically strong. But, he’s violent. Cruel, even. Father says that’s what makes Cassius so strong – he’s seen the horrors beyond the city walls and knows the necessity of brutality. 

But, Finley. She’s seen horrors even Cassius hasn’t. You’ve heard of the Dagannoth, right? She helped fight off an army of them when she was eighteen. Lost her mother and older sister to them, too. And now, she’s practically lost the rest of her family because she can’t go home, lest she draw unwanted attention to them and put them in danger. Someone whose seen and lost so much – you think they’d hate the world.

But, Finley. She’s kind. Caring. I don’t think it’s out of naivete or anything like that, though. She’s kind because she chooses to be. She chooses to have hope, to believe the best in everyone, and to care, despite the dung she’s had to trek though.

That’s a kind of strength that even Cassius would pale at.

Just by existing, she proves to me that Father and Cassius aren’t right about everything. And, just by traveling with her, I feel like I’m slowly figuring out who I am and what I’m meant to do with my life.

To be honest, Marin, I’ve never felt more alive. I actually feel like someone that deserves to exist, you know?

That’s why I need you to keep this all a secret from Father and Cassius, especially Father. They’d just try to pull me back into that horrid routine of standing guard on the castle walls all day. I don’t want to be 'Archer DeSilva’ ever again. I want to be 'Adrius,’ whatever that may mean.

-Adrius

P.S. Pick a harder dare next time, Seaweed. Finley and I are watching Gielinor rise above the treeline right now. We found Zanaris.

 

Dear Adrius,

You have my word. Sir Elian and Cassius won’t hear a single letter of this.

Bring some cheese back from the moon when you visit next, will you? And bring Finley along, too – anyone who could possibly make Cassius soil his britches is someone I’d like to meet.

Your brother,

Marin

P.S. It sounds almost like you want Finley to crack your skull in between her thighs…

 

Dear Marin,

What about that strong letter you promised?

-Adrius

P.S. You’re an ass.

P.P.S. We’re just friends, that’s all.

 

Dear Adrius,

I threw it out. Writing any more of it would’ve been a waste of good paper.

Your brother,

Marin

P.S. I know, I know. Love you, too, brother.

P.P.S. Yeah, right. Let me know when the wedding is.


	3. Entry #6: Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, when Finley and Adrius first meet. Adrius getting knocked over the head by a rock mirrors similar experiences I’ve had with my car’s trunk door, as well as a metal shelf in my lab’s supply closet…

Adrius was lost.

He cursed the fog under his breath – he could only see five feet in any direction. Tree branches sprung into existence without warning to snag at his cloak, and he seemed to stub his toe on a rock or rotting log every other step.

 _This is the price I pay for freedom,_ he thought bitterly to himself, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He should’ve just stayed on that ship, joined the trader crew, and started life over as a sailor.

Who was he kidding? He had thrown up no less than six times on the trip from Port Sarim to Catherby. He would faster become a dancing unicorn than he would a sailor.

Huffing, he trudged into a mud puddle, hearing the gunk squelch wetly against his boots and threaten to pull them clean off his feet. He gritted his teeth and put all his strength into slogging through the mud

As he reached the other side of the puddle, however, he pitched forward without warning.

He had tripped. Again.

Except this time, there was no ground to catch him.

Yelping, he slid and tumbled head over heels down the small, muddy hill, his appendages tangling uselessly in his cloak.

He saw the world spin dizzyingly around him as he fell.

He saw, for a fleeting moment, a large rock at the bottom of the hill.

Then, he saw nothing.

***

When Adrius first awoke, he panicked.

His arms dangled uselessly below him – was he being carried?

His head felt like it had been caved in with a sledgehammer.

His nose was filled with a harsh, animal smell made worse by the rain that now fell.

He couldn’t see anything.

Barking, he wrenched his head upward, freeing it from the – fur? - it had been buried in.

Relief was fleeting, but still existent – he hadn’t been blinded, but his vision blurred and throbbed, no doubt a result of the rock that had conked him over the head.

Craning his neck around, he tried to make out who, or what, was carrying him.

All he managed to see was a head of thick, braided, golden-brown hair before the blood rushing to his head became too much and he slumped back into unconsciousness.

***

When Adrius next awoke, he still panicked.

But only a bit.

The stone walls around him and the bed beneath him reminded him too much of Falador Castle. However, the banners hanging from the walls were adorned not with the four-pointed star of Saradomin, but with a seven-rayed sun set on an auburn background.

Sighing, partly in relief, he laid back on the bed, his temple throbbing uncomfortably.

That strange animal smell still lingered in his nostrils, though, and he felt his nose wrinkle involuntarily. No matter which way he moved his head, he couldn’t seem to escape it.

Snorting, he pushed himself back upright and looked around the room for the source of the smell. After a moment of sniffing and nose-wrinkling, he found it.

A cloak, made from the hide of some vast, feral animal, no doubt, lay draped over a chair in the corner, air drying.

Curious, Adrius eased himself off the bed, ignoring the resulting vertigo, and shuffled over to the chair, taking the heavy cloak in hand. He ran his fingers through the thick, wiry hair that was still slightly damp from the rain before gingerly bending over and taking a tentative whiff.

_SARADOMIN SAVE ME._

Gagging, he dropped the cloak back onto the chair and aggressively wiped his hands on a nearby banner, desperate to get that pungent bovine stench off of him.

 _It must be yak,_ he thought. _Nothing smells worse than yak, as far as I’ve heard._

“Oh! Yer awake, there!”

Adrius froze, a corner of the banner still in hand, and slowly turned to face the other end of the room.

In the now open doorway stood a tall, broad-shouldered woman who, Adrius guessed, was around the same age as himself. Though she cut a figure reminiscent of some of the more war-hardened members of the Temple Knights, her face was open and friendly, framed by thick, braided, golden-brown hair that was passingly familiar.

“I…I,” he stuttered, dropping the banner and edging back toward the bed. “Yes. I am.”

“That’s good, then! Ye got a nasty thunk on yer head from something, that’s for sure – I was right worried when I found ye.”

“You? So, you were the one carrying me earlier?”

“Aye, don’t worry yerself over it – I’ve been hefting around trees heavier than ye since before I could take a proper squat in the woods.”

“What?”

Suddenly, she strode forward, taking his arms in a firm grip and setting him down on the bed. Adrius sat, slightly bewildered, as she began to comb his hair out of the way, wincing as she reached the spot where his head had struck the rock.

“Hm,” she hummed, gently probing around the wound. “There’s a fair amount of blood around here, but seeing that ye can still stand and walk about, I don’t think anything’s too scrambled in there.”

“How do you know that?” Adrius asked, unable to help the incredulity in his voice – she looked more like some sort of roving bandit than a medic; someone who should be causing injuries rather than repairing them.

“I’ve seen my tribesfolk lose arms, ears, and eyes, and still be well enough to wrestle a Daggermouth to death. I’m sure even a soft-skinned Outerlander like yerself can handle a little block-knock.”

_Daggermouth?_

_Outerlander?_

_Block-knock?_

“What are you talking about?” he hissed, pushing her hands away. “You’re not making any sense.”

The woman took a step backwards, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Right – what I’m talking about is this: ye got banged up, but, from what I’ve seen, people have lived through worse. I think ye’ll be fine. I hope ye’ll be fine.”

“Alright, then, I’ll be fine. Happy?” he very nearly snapped. She, however, seemed to disregard his agitation and slapped a hand down onto his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.

“Aye, it’s good to meet an Outerlander with some rocks in his pants!”

“Wha…what?” Adrius felt his face heat up and hoped that his cheeks weren’t turning the same shade as his hair.

“What’s yer name, then?”

“Wait – what’s this about rocks in my pants?”

“Nevermind that, lad – what’s yer name?”

“I- uh, Adrius. My name’s Adrius.”

The woman stuck out a hand, and Adrius, after a moment, took and shook it. Her hand felt hardened and calloused under his, and he wondered just what kind of life the woman had lived to temper her skin in such a way.

“Adrius,” she repeated.

At that moment, it felt as though a weight lifted from his chest. To hear his name said without malice, command, or disappointment gave him pause, yet cemented the thought in his mind that maybe, just maybe, he had made the right choice by leaving Falador.

_Maybe._

“Um, what’s your name?” he asked, finally meeting the woman’s eyes. At that moment, her smile turned a bit lopsided, and she scratched the back of her neck with her free hand.

“Well, I’ve got myself a couple of different names, ye know. Feurhildr Lartinsdóttir is what a lot of my tribefolk call me nowadays, but Outerlander’s like yerself might call me Finley Bannbreker instead. Ye can call me whichever, I don’t fuss over it too much.”

“Right,” he mumbled, not even bothering to entertain the choice, as it was obvious which one he should pick if he wanted to keep his tongue from tying itself into a knot. “Finley Bannbreker.”

“Aye, then! Finley it is,” she said, finally releasing his hand and walking over to the cloak-draped chair. As she picked up the soggy garment and threw it over her shoulder, sending another whiff of damp yak up Adrius’ nose, he spoke again.

“Where am I?” he asked, fingers curling against the bedsheets on which he sat.

“Camelot Castle,” the woman – Finley – answered. “The knights around here are going to let us stay around here until yer fully healed up.”

_Us._

_Huh._

“Though, I promised to help them all out with a bit of a sair fecht they’ve gotten themselves into. Something about a mage-type getting frozen up in crystal, or something. I was going to head out in the morning to see what I can do to help – yer welcome to come with me if yer head’s not throbbing too much.”

Adrius stared her for a moment before nodding slightly.

“I’ll think about it.”

At that, she smiled broadly again and made for the door. Only after she had left did he lay back down on the bed, massaging his temple.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

Nevertheless, as he lay there and stared at the ceiling, visually tracing each pit and crack in the stone, the tiniest, quietest part of him wished that, tomorrow, his head would feel better.

He also wished that the weather would clear up so that neither of them - especially her - needed their cloaks.


	4. Entry #8: Injury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing a minor character in Finley’s canon: Csongor Valtamer aka Curarestrix (pronounced: cur-ARE-eh-stricks). A medical druid residing in Taverly, he’s the resident expert on healing methods, both chemical and thaumaturgical, is the foremost practitioner of newly-developed surgical techniques in Gielinor, and takes his work very seriously, keeping personal journals of all his cases. He is the father of Aderyn “Jay” Valtamer (an adventurer and explosives enthusiast who occasionally travels with Finley and does most of the Elf Questline), and also happens to be Finley’s uncle, being the older brother of Ava Bannbreker, Finley’s mother.
> 
> Finley was brought into his care for the first time after ROTM to treat her frostbite and broken ribs, caused by Lucien stomping on her back during their 1v1. The second time she’s brought to him, her injuries are a bit more extreme. Takes place during the events of “The Weight of a Soul,” and refers back to Codex Entry #12.
> 
> I’ll put a warning here for descriptions of blood, organ removal, and such.

Case #249: Day 1

Patient Information

Name: Finley Bannbreker

Age: 31 (estimated)

Height: 1.8 m

Weight: 72 kg

—

Note: This patient has been referred to me once before – see Case #199, pg. 40-62 of Book 7, for a full cataloguing of injuries and treatments. I will likely refer to this previous case for reference and comparison.

Patient was brought to me earlier today in critical condition. Severe blood loss from penetrating trauma in her upper abdomen had lowered her blood pressure and pulse to the point of coma. My first action will be to correct this bleeding.

—-

I sutured the major puncture wound in her abdomen closed. That should stop the bleeding for now and allow her blood pressure to rise to a safer level. I may need to open her abdomen up again if she presents with signs of internal bleeding.

Further examination of the patient revealed several broken ribs. As in Case #199, most of the fractures seem to be centered around the heads and necks of ribs 4 to 9, indicating that the patient suffered blunt force trauma to her back. I have copied the text from pg. 40-41 below referring to the patient’s previous rib injuries for quick reference:

_Several of her ribs are cracked – most of the cracks seem to be located on the heads of the lower three false ribs on both sides, as demarcated by severe bruising. Oddly enough, the bruising pattern seems to outline the shape of a very large foot, suggesting she was kicked or stomped on from above by someone just under 3 meters tall. Luckily for her, minimal damage seems to have been done to her spine._

Secondary sources of bleeding were also discovered during further examination, most notably a slow yet steady discharge of blood from the patient’s ears and eyes. I examined her skull for fractures, but found none, so I will settle for monitoring the patient overnight. Hopefully, these secondary sources of bleeding will stop.

 

Case #249: Day 2

They haven’t stopped. Each time the blood is wiped away, more seeps out. I suspect internal cranial injuries. Additionally, abdominal swelling and ecchymosis have become obvious, and the patient’s blood pressure has continued to fall, indicating severe internal bleeding. I will begin an exploratory laparotomy immediately to determine, and hopefully correct, the source of the abdominal bleeding, but I’m afraid that I may not be able to correct whatever intracranial injury may have occurred.

—-

Exploratory laparotomy revealed that the patient’s spleen was pierced through by whatever skewered her, causing the observed bleeding. Damage to the spleen appears irreparable - the best course of action at this point is a splenectomy.

—-

Spleen was successfully removed and all vessels ligated by cauterization. Unfortunately, patient’s blood pressure refuses to rise, and secondary bleeding hasn’t stopped. If this trend continues, patient may go into refractory shock. Nevertheless, I will attempt, to the best of my abilities, to keep this patient alive.

—-

~~Time of death: 2:32 pm.~~

~~Cause of death: Circulatory shock, possibly coupled with intracranial hemorrhage. Autopsy will be performed to confirm this.~~

—-

Corpses don’t bleed.

—-

Either something is keeping the patient alive, or she refuses to die. I take that as a sign.

Patient and I have the same blood type. I will perform an emergency transfusion to keep her alive while I work to find the root of the problem.

—-

Patient is stable. Finally. I had to resort to more primitive methods of healing than what I prefer, but they worked.

I believe that the patient was suffering not just from physical injuries, but from metaphysical insult as well. To correct this, I attempted a tetra-anchored balance restoring ritual. The lantadyme/potato cactus mixture violently combusted the moment I added it to the northernmost receptacle, indicating a phenomenal stress on the patient’s mind, whereas the snapdragon/red spider egg mixture barely registered a spark, indicating, as expected, a drain on the patient’s body. Both the ranarr/snape grass and spirit weed/cockatrice egg mixtures ignited cleanly, indicating a good balance between the patient’s soul and spirit, respectively. I added silver dust to the lantadyme/potato cactus mixture and Mort Myre fungi to the snapdragon/red spider egg mixture to balance the patient’s mind and body energies.

I used up all of my Mort Myre fungi. The 2 kg bag in my supply closet was meant to last me a year. ~~Dammit.~~

Nevertheless, the ritual worked, and the patient’s ocular and aural bleeding has stopped.

 

Case #249: Day 3

Patient’s blood pressure has started to rise to a much safer level. The surgical site on her abdomen showed some signs of inflammation, so I applied lantadyme paste, supplemented with crushed blue dragon scale to the site to reduce swelling. There is not much I can do to treat her rib fractures other than administer dwarf weed extract to control pain and monitor the patient’s breathing to make sure her lungs don’t collapse. Again, as in Case #199, I can detect no lasting injuries to her spine.

Lucky her.

 

Case #249: Day 6

Although the patient continues to slowly recover, I am concerned for her long-term health. Without her spleen, she will be more susceptible to infection, and considering her constant traveling and lack of reliable access to bathing facilities (if Aderyn’s state of hygiene is anything to go off of during her occasional visits), this could pose a significant problem for her.

—-

I believe I may have come up with a solution. Once again, it is less sophisticated than I would like, but considering the success of the tetra-anchored balancing ritual, it should do its job well. I have carved a sigil of health into a blank runestone and tempered it with fire fed with irit and unicorn horn dust. Now, I must implant it in the cavity left by the recent splenectomy. I would rather not open up the patient’s abdomen again, but I must for her sake.

—-

Runestone implantation successful. I kept the incision small, and any bleeding was easily manageable.

 

Case #249: Day 10

Patient’s blood pressure is back to normal.

She still hasn’t regained consciousness yet. I’m beginning to worry.

 

Case #249: Day 11

Patient regained consciousness today. It was a violent awakening.

It began in the morning, with her mumbling in her sleep. I couldn’t make out most of what she was saying, and what I could made no sense to me. I’ve written down the intelligible bits of her mumblings for future reference below:

_Burning_

_Dying_

_Abyss_

_Blasphemous_

_Growing_

_Consuming_

_Expanding_

_Awakening_

As time went on, the above words became less and less frequent, and she started to mention what sounded like names. I distinctly heard Guthix mentioned, which makes sense, considering she was reportedly found in Guthix’s shrine near Ardougne. The other ‘name’ she mentioned might not have been a name at all – she said the word ’no’ over and over again, but her tone of voice suggested that she was using the word as a name, or at least part of one, rather than as an interjection. I’m not a speech therapist, however, so I cannot make any conclusions at this time.

As I’ve noted before (see pg. 56), her accent is remarkably similar to that straw-haired woodcarver that Ava ran off with nearly 35 years ago. I seem to remember this patient having the same eyes as Ava as well, though they’ve changed color for some reason. That, coupled with our identical blood types, makes me wonder if this patient is ~~somehow related to me.~~ This is of no consequence. She is my patient, and my first concern is her health, not her familial origins. ~~Pull yourself together, Csongor.~~

After approximately two hours of mumbling, patient suddenly shot upright, screaming and clawing at herself. I rushed to her bedside to restrain her, since she could’ve very well ripped out her stitches, but when I approached, she latched her hands around my neck and began to strangle me. After a few moments, however, she stopped, grabbed a handful of my hair, and then seemed to come to her senses before letting me go and apologizing profusely. Thankfully, she allowed me to examine her abdomen, eyes, and ears without protest and drank a full cup of dwarf weed tea before going back to sleep.

She has the hand strength of a troll. I’ve been unable to speak for the past four hours, and my neck is severely bruised.

 

Case #249: Day 14

Patient – Finley – is up and walking. She has some difficultly with flexibility, due to the surgical site on her abdomen not being fully healed, but she seems to have no trouble with basic motions. This is good – her ribs are healing nicely, and her coordination speaks to the balance between her mind and body being restored. I will recommend that she use crutches for a while to help her walk while she regains her strength.

However, I’m beginning to think that her injuries are not solely physical.

My suspicions were, of course, aroused the day she awoke and attacked me. Such a reflex suggests that it was indeed a person who caused her injuries, rather than some random creature.

I’m going to guess that, whoever they were, they were bald, seeing as the presence of hair on my head seemed to stop her from completely asphyxiating me.

 

Case #249: Day 15

Finley seems reluctant to talk about what happened to her.

I’ll rephrase. She didn’t seem to mind me explaining her injuries and how I treated them, though she did seem a bit surprised when I told her of her spleen being removed. However, when I asked her if she remembered what, or who, had caused such injuries, she simply shook her head and tried to change the subject.

So, I decided to test my theory from yesterday. My brother, Ari, has been in town for the past week. He’s also recently shaved his head. A pity – he always had the best hair in the family. I’ll ask him to pay us a little visit later tonight.

 

Case #250: Day 1

Patient Information

Name: Ari Valtamer

Age: 59

Height: 1.7 m

Weight: 60 kg

—

Patient has a broken nose and a periorbital hematoma (left side). Luckily, he suffered no skull fractures or damage to the eye itself, so minimal treatment is needed. I applied ice to his eye and nose and sent him home for the time being.

 

Case #249: Day 15.2

I confess that having Ari wake Finley up from her nap was a very bad idea.

Her immediate and violent fear response to seeing Ari seems to confirm my hypothesis. I confronted her about it, and she conceded, perhaps as an apology for punching my brother in the face. She bitterly described her assailant as, and I quote; “an angry, half-cooked, walking testicle with bad breath…probably.”

Quite the description.

 

Case #249: Day 18

Finley finally went outside today. She stumbled a bit as she walked down the road to the shore, but she seemed to be handling herself decently using her crutch.

I hope that, just as in Case #199, being outdoors will help her mental state. I’d send her back to Thaerisk, since talking with him seemed to cheer her up the most, but he’s out of town at the moment, on business in Falador.

Nevertheless, things are looking up.

—

~~WHAT THE FUCK, FINLEY.~~

 

Case #251: Day 1

Patient Information

Name: Nicholas Angle

Age: 36

Height: 1.9 m

Weight: 83 kg

—

Patient presented with severe bruising on his temple as a result of blunt force trauma caused by a thrown beer glass. No skull fractures or bleeding sites were apparent, so I sent him home, suggested a few days rest, and asked him to return to me if he has any problems with coordination or vision.

 

Case #249: Day 19

Finley seems oddly chipper after committing her second assault in three days. She’s more relaxed, though she still refuses to talk at length about what happened to her almost three weeks ago.

I suppose drunkenly venting her frustrations over the situation, as opposed to calmly meditating in nature, was the best medicine for her this time.

Her physical injuries have healed to the point where I feel comfortable discharging her from my care. She plans to leave tomorrow, and I wish her luck on her road to recovery.

I also wish luck to this 'angry, half-cooked, walking testicle with bad breath’ she spoke of.

Whoever they are, they’re going to need it.

 

Case End.


	5. Entry #1: Overheard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the events of Missing, Presumed Death. After Finley goes off in search of a way to enter the Empyrean Citadel’s main hall, Kharshai overhears the Zarosian Mahjarrat start up a conversation about what’s happened between her and them in the past.
> 
> Azzanadra and Finley don’t really get along. They try, but Finley’s ideological fickleness and Azzanadra’s zealotry always end up clashing.

“Unfaithful, irresponsible, c̢͡͡h̛͘į̴̶ļ̶̧̧̀d̸̀ ̡̀͢͟͡o̵͝͞f̨͟ ̨̛͝͡ą̨̀͞ ̴̡͘m̷͟ú̵̵̵́s̛҉̴p̨͜͠͡á͏̧͜͝h͟͞!̡̛”

“Azzanadra, _enough._ You’ve made your point.”

Kharshai sighed, crossing his arms. Azzanadra’s latest outburst marked the fifth time in the past two minutes he had slipped into the native Freneskaen tongue, and it was starting to annoy him. Nevertheless, he remained silent as he leaned against the far wall of the Empyrean Citadel’s foyer; he was here to mitigate tensions between the Zarosians and the Zamorakians, not to get involved with Azzanadra’s personal grudges.

That didn’t stop him from listening, however.

“Have I, Wahisietel? _Have I?”_

“Yes. You have.”

“She betrayed us, that-”

“E͝N͜͠Ò͡U̴̷G̷̡̢͟͞Ḩ̴̶̧.͘҉ Just let it go.”

“NO! I will not ‘let it go.’ We trusted her to lead us to Guthix, and what does she do? She stands in our way - in _my_ way - as if she had forgotten all the things I had done for her! I taught her the Ancient Magicks, laboriously imparted the priceless wisdom of our tribe onto to her, even officiated her marriage, and…this…is how she repays me?!?”

“Perhaps it has less to do with you, and more to do with the fact that you sent Sliske, of all people, to explain the situation to her. Do I need to remind you that he tried to kill her at the Ritual?”

“…”

“Apparently, I do, considering you fled as soon as Lucien was skewered to the ground…”

The tension between Azzanadra and Wahisietel was almost a visible thing – to Kharshai’s eyes, it resembled heat waves rising from a burning pyre ship.

“Brothers, please,” he heard Akthanakos say. “Regardless of the choices she’s made, the outcome will hopefully be desirable in the long run. Can we let bygones be bygones and focus on the fact that one of our own is claiming godhood?”

“S̨̡͟͟͞t̶́͢͏à̵y͠͏͏ ̴y̡̛̕o̴̶̧̡ų̨̕͏̨r̵̀ ̴̨̛̀͠t̵̢҉o̧̨̕͟ņ̴̵͞g͝u̴̵̡͢ȩ͢͡,̛̕͟ ̕͠A̧̛̕͢͠k͠͠͏̧̕t̨̕̕ḩ̢͏a̴̴͡͝n̶̢a̸͜k̷̸̴͘ò̡̡͜ś̴͘͜͠.̴̧͘ ̡̀T̨͘͟h̛҉í̧͘s̴̛ ̷͝d̡͏̷͝ó̕͝e̢͘s̸͜n̡͞'͡͞t̵̕̕͠ ̨̢̀́͝c̡͢͡͠o̸̧͝͞n̡̢͟͡ç̴͘͢ę̶́͞ŗ̷̛͘n̶̷̛ ̴̸̶̶ỳ̸̸͡ơ̷̵̕u͡҉̸͞.҉̶̢̀͜”

Azzanadra’s hiss washed through the foyer. The Aviansie to the south squawked loudly, and even the towering K'ril Tsutsaroth seemed to flinch at the sound.

Akthankos, however, barely twitched.

“I think it does, Azzanadra, considering that Finley threw seven rocks, a cactus, two of my ugthanki calves, and an alligator at me because of your little ‘holy child’ scheme.”

Kharshai smiled slightly at the mental image of Feurhildr – no, Finley – hefting an alligator onto her shoulder and chasing Akthanakos around a sand dune, aiming the scaly beast at his head. She may have left the tribe, yes, but that brute Fremennik strength and relentlessness – traits that he, as Koshei, had helped to cultivate – still burned bright within her.

Something, however, gave him pause. It wasn’t like her to attack someone without a very good reason. He knew this; during her trial of bravery, it took knocking her down twice and stabbing her in the shoulder to get her to even throw a punch.

 _So, what was her reason for attacking Akthanakos?_ he wondered.

“I am not to blame for your loose tongue, child. If Bannbreker had just accepted my offer in the first place, none of this would’ve happened.”

“And you know this _how?”_ Wahisietel very nearly scoffed. “Your plan was dead on arrival, Azzanadra, and it’s time you recognized that.”

“My _plan_ was to baptize the child of Bannbreker and DeSilva in Zaros’ name. Imagine it. The child of two capable warriors, my rescuers, serving the Empty Lord. Unfortunately, DeSilva died before said child could even be conceived. It was hardly 'dead on arrival,’ as you say.”

Kharshai suppressed a chuckle as he watched Wahisietel bury his face in his hands with a low growl.

“That’s not…that’s not what I meant, Azzanadra,” he groaned. “Your plan to replace Adrius with someone from the Zarosian ranks – _that_ plan – was doomed to fail.”

“How? Those were perfectly good suitors I sent her way. Strong, healthy, and faithful. She was a fool to not accept them as mates.”

“Did it ever occur to you,” Wahisietel began, his voice rising. “That she was still grieving for her husband, whom she had just watched die? I knew them, Azzanadra. Those two lived with me for just over a year. They were more than just 'mates,’ as you put it. They were each others rocks, each others guides. They depended on each other. You can’t just _replace_ that on a whim.”

“And you know this?”

“I do. I’ve lived among humans for centuries. It’s quite a common trend for them to grieve, often for quite a while in human terms, after the death of a loved one.”

Kharshai knew that as well. He’d seen it, even felt it - that grief. A husband losing a wife and child to the Dagannoth, a child losing a mentor to the cold, unforgiving winter, or a warrior losing a shield-sibling to the storm of war. On Freneskae, however, grief had been a luxury, if it was ever felt at all, and had always been quickly brushed away in favor of things far more important for survival.

Sighing, he turned his attentions back to Azzanadra, Wahisietel, and Akthanakos, who had all quieted down considerably. Against the now audible breeze that whistled through the arches above, their voices were getting harder to hear.

“Perhaps,” Azzanadra began, shaking his head. “Perhaps you’re right, Wahisietel. But, that does not excuse her refusal to embrace Zaros’ ways.”

“Just as you don’t understand her grief, she may not understand Zaros,” Akthanakos said simply, shrugging.

“Then how can I help her to understand? I’ve already taught her our magic and our hymns, already read her my sermons, everything. What else can I do without…without…”

“Send her to talk Zaros directly,” Wahisietel chuckled, sarcasm evident in his voice. “Let her get her faith straight from the god’s mouth, as it were.”

At that moment, a gust of wind roared through the foyer, sweeping away whatever words Azzanadra uttered just then.

The raw excitement and anticipation on his face, however, was quite apparent.

Kharshai ground his teeth at the sight, glancing briefly over the shoulder at the door that Finley had departed through just a handful of minutes prior.

_Remember Geilir’s words, Little Grass-Hair. 'No matter how hard the storm rages, the warrior must stand their ground and face it if they want to survive.’_


	6. Entry #10: Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Sir Elian (a play on ‘cerulean’) DeSilva, Temple Knight. Though he’s a minor character in Finley’s canon, he’s one of the more important figures in Adrius’ life. He has a long-standing rivalry with Captain Dragomir Macaulay of the Kinshra. Both of them have done terrible, unforgivable things to each other and their families in the past, and, while Dragomir sobers up and mellows out considerably over the years, Sir Elian never lets go of his grudge.
> 
> Takes place immediately after ROTM.

_Adrius is dead._

If the knight felt any grief, a slight grimace working its way across his face was the only thing heralding it.

He massaged his temple, hoping to rid himself of his blasted headache, before looking up at the one who had brought him the news.

“How did it happen?” he rumbled. The messenger, his eldest son, twitched slightly, seemingly unsure how to continue.

“It was Lucien. He summoned a legion of ice demons into battle, and Adrius, he…”

“Continue, Cassius.”

“He was impaled by several spears of ice,” Cassius said flatly.

“Why?”

His son was silent for a moment.

“Tell. Me.”

“Finley. She got knocked down by one of the other Mahjarrat. Adrius stepped in to protect her, and-”

With a roar, Sir Elian drove his fist into the nearest wall, feeling the stone scrape his knuckles raw.

He knew it.

He just _KNEW_ it.

He knew that…that…

The words wouldn’t come. The words he needed to describe that _thing_ that took his son – his son, not that demon-born Kinshra filth’s son, his son – from him just wouldn’t come.

“Get out.”

“Sir?”

“Go, Cassius.”

He waited for the door to latch shut and for Cassius’ footsteps to fade before he slumped to the floor, cradling his bloodied hand.

It was over. It was all over, now.

He had seen Adrius and that…that… _her_ …walk over the bridge into Falador castle together nearly two months prior. Adrius, his Adrius, had been missing for two years. But, it wasn’t _his_ Adrius that came home.

She had done something to him, no doubt. Warped his mind, stolen his soul, _something._ Gone was the quiet, obedient Temple Archer, replaced instead with an over-ambitious vagrant with fire in his eyes.

Adrius even had the nerve to _interrupt_ him when he and the rest of Crux Eqal were planning to infiltrate Lucien’s fortress to the north. He suggested that… _she_ …be the one to impersonate Surok Magis and make contact with the Mahjarrat. What an idiotic plan. Yes, dress the broad-shouldered, heavily-muscled, halberd-wielding, barbarian woman with the obvious Fremennik lilt up as the aged, spindly, and bearded Surok, whose accent is distinctly Misthalinian.

 _Piss in, piss out._ The infiltration had failed horribly.

As far as Sir Elian cared, _she_ was to blame for the murders that happened that day. _She_ was to blame for Lucien coming into possession of the Stone of Jas not half a week later.

And now, _she_ was to blame for Adrius’ death.

 _Why were they there?_ She was given explicit instructions not to attend the ritual. Adrius, too, was not to go. He was to stay at the castle. It was the safest place for him.

_Why were you there?_

As he stared down at his seeping knuckles, a picture formed in his mind.

Eyes the color of sewer water, crinkling at the edges as if they belonged to someone three times her age.

Skin weathered and cracked by wind and winter.

Hair like dry wheat, horribly rough-looking and unkempt.

That insufferable, toothy smile.

He clenched his fist, blood dripping to the stone below.

The next time he saw _her,_ he would tear that smile off her face.

“Saradomin preserve you, _Finley Bannbreker,”_ he hissed, finally standing and wiping his hand on his tunic.

“Saradomin preserve you so that I may kill you myself.”


End file.
